


The Curling Vine

by jenny_of_oldstones



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II
Genre: Fog Warriors, Hair, M/M, Slavery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-01
Updated: 2020-05-01
Packaged: 2021-03-01 19:14:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,677
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23882119
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jenny_of_oldstones/pseuds/jenny_of_oldstones
Summary: Fenris never cuts his own hair.
Relationships: Fenris/Male Hawke
Comments: 18
Kudos: 94





	The Curling Vine

“Your hair has grown long," said Danarius.

Danarius lounged on his favorite chaise in the courtyard, two slaves fanning him with ostrich feathers. Fenris stood at his back, watching the walls that surrounded the garden for assassins.

“Kneel down,” said Danarius.

Fenris did so. Danarius rubbed a lock of his hair between thumb and forefinger.

“It’s coarse,” said Danarius. “A pity. It was so soft before.”

“Yes master,” said Fenris.

“The lyrium must interfere with your hair’s natural oils,” said Danarius. “It looks like ermine, but feels like straw.”

Fenris watched the disappointment shadow his master’s face, waiting for the moment it would turn to anger. Danarius leaned back on his chaise and raised a hand. Another slave wiped it with a damp cloth.

“Summon Ferox,” said Danarius.

A minute later, the kennel master was brought to the courtyard. He was a pale human with pink eyes and white hair who always seemed uncomfortable in the sun.

“Dominus,” he said.

“What do you think?” said Danarius, waving at Fenris. “His hair is not unlike yours. What should we do with it?”

The kennel master grabbed a hank of Fenris’s hair and inspected it.

“Keep a stripe,” said Ferox. “Shave the rest.”

“So you say.” Danarius was already losing interest. It was hot in the courtyard, and there was only so much time a magister could devote to the hair of his slaves. “I am hosting tonight, make sure he is presentable.”

“As you wish.” Ferox clapped a hand on Fenris’s shoulder and steered him toward the kennels.

Years later, when Fenris had more of a mind of his own and knew his worth, he would often remind Ferox and the other slaves that he was above them in station. As it was then, he let himself be sat on a barrel among the dog cages. Ferox sawed through hair with a dull razor, dragging it hard across his scalp. He shaved his head clean, save for a stripe of white down the middle, which he oiled and tied into a topknot.

Ferox slapped the side of his head. “You will thank the master, and keep your hair trim next time.”

Fenris returned to Danarius in the garden. The magister lifted an eyebrow over his wineglass. “Much better.” 

“Yes, master.”

As Fenris resumed his post, he caught a glimpse of his reflection in the frog pond. To his surprise, he found he looked like a completely different person.

But it was no matter- he felt that way every time he looked in the mirror. 

* * *

The Fog Warriors celebrated his first month of freedom by getting him drunk on coconut wine.

Fenris sat with them around the fire in their village. The smell of roast pig wafted from the pit where it had been buried, and the stars were thick as grains of sand above the canopy. The sweetness of the wine made his teeth hurt, but he drank deeply at their urging. Soon he was swaying with the rest of them, and while he did not sing, he hummed along with their songs.

“You should go with us on the raid tomorrow,” said Levan. He sat close to Fenris, careful not to touch him. “What better way to say good riddance to Tevinter?”

“If you desire it,” said Fenris. The ground felt like it was spinning. “I will do so.”

“Truly?”

“Yes.”

Levan studied him. He had been a slave too, many years ago. The Fog Warriors had rescued him, and now he wore looted magister gold on his fingers and pointed ears.

“You don’t have to, of course,” said Levan. “You can say no.”

Could he? Fenris was not so sure. These people had taken him in. They had fed him, shown him how to hunt and survive in the deadly jungles of Seheron. Would they continue to allow him to squat in their village like a stray dog if he did not contribute?

“I will go,” said Fenris. “My sword arm needs practice.”

“Excellent,” said Levan. “But you’ll need to look the part.”

And, because he was drunk, he let Levan sit on a coconut behind him and cut off his topknot. The other elf carefully shaved all the hair from his head, until he was as sleek as the rest of the warriors in the camp. The others watched, the ragtag bunch of Tal-Vashoth, elves, and human natives, and gave a whooping cheer when Levan threw Fenris’s topknot in the fire.

“How does it feel?” asked Levan.

Fenris ran a hand over his scalp. “Clean."

In the morning, they painted him white.

They struck the port town at the base of the mountain, swimming through alchemical fog like sharks, cutting screaming mages down with flashing blades. After the slaughter, they walked among the bodies. Fenris caught sight of himself in the reflection of a window. Pale as moonlight, with a ceramic mask over his nose and mouth. His head bald as an initiate’s.

And he was an initiate, he thought, as he pressed the tip of his sword into the throat of a gurgling magister. He would stay with these people, as long as they would have him. He would die for them if need be.

He drove the sword down into the mage’s throat, and the gurgling stopped. On a whim, he raised a hand to his head and marveled at the feel of his own skin.

* * *

"You keep brushing your hair out of your face," said Hawke. "Doesn't it bother you?"

"No." Fenris bit into a green apple.

"You don't care that it's a shaggy mop?" 

"Who do I have to impress?" 

Hawke cut a slice of cheese off the wedge and placed it on a heel of black bread. "How did you wear it before it got long?"

"In whatever way was convenient," said Fenris. "It does not concern me how it looks." 

"You don't say," said Hawke. 

Fenris flipped idly through the pirate novel they had been working on. Despite its strong start, the reading lesson had petered out after half an hour. They had drunk a little wine, gotten on the topic of Isabela's new braids, and somehow arrived here. It was not surprising. Hawke's reading lessons had become longer and less structured as of late. He and his fat mabari seemed to think Fenris's mansion was their second home, and often lingered well past midnight. Fenris was unsure what to make of that.

"You know, it's easier to let someone else cut your hair than to do it yourself," said Hawke. "I could trim yours for you, if you like." 

"That is unnecessary."

"It'll be fun," said Hawke. 

"Hardly a ringing endorsement," said Fenris.

"C'mon." Hawke rose unsteadily. "I used to cut Carver and Bethany's hair when they were children, and they never complained."

"I recall your sister saying you used to sit on her when she made you angry," said Fenris.

"We can take it into the garden," said Hawke. "It's beautiful out."

Fenris began to protest, but Hawke was already digging through his pack. Fenris sighed, took a final bite of his apple, and set the core on the table.

So much for being the master of his own home.

Hawke took a chair out into garden. Fenris sat on it, squinting at the light shimmering through the leaves of the juniper tree. The evening sun had turned orange on the crumbling courtyard. It was lovely out and warm.

"This is one of my sharpest knives," said Hawke, flicking the steel with his fingernail. "No split ends, I promise." 

"As you wish."

"Do you have a request for a style?"

Fenris snorted. The ridiculousness of this man. What did style mean to an escaped slave with no past or future?

"Whatever is easiest," said Fenris. 

A bowl was placed on his head. Nervousness prickled up his spine as Hawke tucked his ears under the rim. The touch of flesh on flesh was unexpected,. He gripped the bottom of the chair, nauseated at how close Hawke was standing behind him. It was all he could do not to run, and he would have, if some part of him was not also curious. 

Hawke touched him casually throughout the haircut. Fingertips on his chin, hand on his shoulder, breath warm on his neck as he bent down to check the length.

A few months ago, Fenris would have broken his wrist for that.

Now... 

When it was over, Hawke removed the bowl and handed him a mirror. "Voila. What do you think?" 

Fenris looked at his reflection and shouted. 

His hair was now in the unmistakable shape of a bowl. 

"Suddenly you care how you look?" Hawke raised his arms as the bowl went sailing past him. It clattered somewhere in the garden, and the mabari went bounding after it.

"I should have trusted Bethany." Fenris carried the chair back inside. 

"Okay, well, maybe I'm not the barber I thought I was." Hawke followed him into the house. "But it was fun, right?" 

The man was serious. Fenris glared at him, and was enraged to see Hawke's face trembling against a smile.

"I have learned my lesson," said Fenris.

"Which is?"

"That you are a clown," said Fenris. "Worse than a clown, because they at least apply skill to their art." 

"Does that mean I won't get a tip?" 

Fenris shoved him snickering from his mansion. The mabari trotted after him, bowl in mouth, tail wagging. Hawke was wheezing himself into a heap when Fenris slammed the door on him.

Never again, he vowed. He would never again let that buffoon touch him. 

* * *

“Your hair has gotten long.”

Hawke teased the end strands with his finger. The hair was thickly braided and tied off with the ragged remains of the red favor Fenris had worn to ribbons around his wrist. Hawke never tired of lifting the braid with his hand and whistling at its weight as if it was a fish at market. 

They stood at a crossroads outside Hercinia. The right road pointed to the coast. Varric had purchased them a cottage on a remote island nearby, where they would lay low there until the Chantry stopped hunting for them...as long as the ship captain had not sold them out, or the innkeeper, or the merchant who gave them a ride on her caravan. The sky was cloudy and bleak, and the smell of the sea was close.

Despite that, Hawke still found time to tease him. 

"It's beautiful," said Hawke. "Like everything about you." 

"Oh?" said Fenris. 

"Yes, it gives me something to tug on."

"Well then," said Fenris. "I'll keep that in mind."

They started down the right path. A seagull wheeled by, fighting against the wind. 

"You always do that," said Hawke. 

"What?"

"You always agree with me about your hair. I feel like I could shave you bald and you'd say, 'yes, that is sufficient.'"

Fenris considered telling him that he'd been bald before. Instead he said, "I recall a haircut you gave me that almost ended our friendship."

"Once," said Hawke. He ran his hand down the braid, and a tenderness came into his eyes. After all these years, it still took Fenris's breath away to know he inspired that in someone. "Do you like it like this?"

"I do not care, Hawke. I had planned on cutting it, but if you wish me to keep it, I will."

Hawke smiled, and there was something sad in it. "All right. Will you let me comb it for you tonight?"

"As you wish."

They made camp under an oak tree far from the road. The mabari kept watch while they pitched their tent and prepared the cookfire. When dinner ended, Fenris sat sideways on a log, while Hawke unwound his hair. He closed his eyes, enjoying the gentle touch of fingers unweaving the strands. When it was free, Hawke ran his fingers through it, combing it out until it was free of tangles. Fenris could not help but smile as Hawke leaned in to smell it.

"I reek of sweat, Hawke," he said.

"Doesn't matter," said Hawke. "You'll always smell like you." He hesitated. "Would you give me a piece?"

"Of my hair?"

"Just in case we're separated, or if something happens...I'd like to have something of you with me."

How could he say no?

Hawke took out a knife and snipped off a lock. Then, carefully, he trimmed the rest of the hair to make sure the length matched. Slowly, reverently, he re-braided it, tying it tight with the red strings of the favor. Fenris grabbed a pot of water and peered at himself in the reflection. He looked the same.

"I'd offer you my own, but, you know." Hawke had clipped his hair close to the scalp after they fled Kirkwall, as if a different haircut could hide the tattooed visage of one of the most infamous men in Thedas. "I love you."

Fenris turned to face him. They had been together for four years, and Hawke was beginning to have crow's feet around his eyes. Fenris could see in his face the younger man he had met in the alienage all those years ago, and the old man he would become. 

"We'll match soon," said Fenris, touching the gray at his temples.

Hawke caught his hand and kissed the palm. "I look forward to it." 

* * *

Fenris sat alone in an empty cottage.

The wind blew salty air through the open kitchen window. A mirror was set on the table. Fenris's hair was long, nearly to his waist. It had never been this long before.

He picked up the scissors. The mabari whined under the table, lying on a drop-cloth spread to catch loose hair.

"What do you think?" asked Fenris.

The chair across from him was empty.

"No opinion then," said Fenris.

He raised the scissors to his braid. Hawke had loved his hair long. 

He listened to the wind blow through an empty house. He had replaced the plates he had smashed and the chairs he had broken. There was nothing left of the letter he had received months ago, or the damage he had wrecked on the house after reading it. It was a small house and quiet, perfect for one man to live alone.

He faced himself in the mirror. He had never cut his own hair before. Somehow, he had always avoided it. Danarius had chosen for him, and the Fog Warriors, and Hawke. He had let the first one out of fear, the second out of loyalty, and the last one out of love.

Now he was alone. A man of forty who still, after all these years, did not know who he was. He had traded one master for another, until there was no one left but himself.

 _Beautiful_ , Hawke had whispered. _You’re so beautiful._

Fenris closed his eyes. He could not do it. If he cut his braid, it meant Hawke was gone forever, and what good was the world then? What was he supposed to do now that the best part of it was over and never coming back?

He listened to the silent house for the sound of gentle breathing.

He opened his eyes. The other chair was empty.

It was over. And the rest of life remained.

He closed the scissors and his braid fell to the floor. He cut the rest of his hair then, thinking of styles he had seen, ones he had liked. He clipped the sides of his head close, leaving the top long. It was so different than before.

The mabari got up when he nudged him. He gathered the drop-cloth with the hair inside it and flapped it out the window. The hair caught on the breeze and was gone.

Months later, when he donned his new blue armor and locked the cottage door behind him, he stopped to feel the moment and breathe. His reflection in the window stared back at him. He looked like someone moving forward. 

He looked like himself. 


End file.
